Great Sex
by HeartsandEyesDelight
Summary: Post-Ep for "The Two Mrs. Grissoms". Sara is insecure...


Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: :) My post-ep for The Two Mrs. Grissoms. Hope you guys enjoy!

Thanks again to Pati for the beta.

If you enjoy this fic... you have to cheer for the Steelers today! Just sayin'.

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"_Grissom and I… have _great_ sex."_

* * *

The last time we'd made love—had sex—had been very… vanilla. And that isn't to say that it's always vanilla. I mean, Gil was a scientist with an adventurous, curious mind, and when we'd first started dating, I'd been a woman in her sexual prime who'd been given an almost decade-old fantasy on a silver platter. I wanted to try everything he wanted to try, and a number of other things, and most of all I'd wanted to make sure he was completely satisfied.

I'd heard about Lady Heather, after all.

I even took up yoga and then relished showing him how bendy I could be. I'd tied him up, been tied up, blindfolded him and been blindfolded myself. We'd used feathers and chocolate syrup and naughty lingerie. We'd done it in the shower and the bathtub, on the kitchen counter and the dining room table. In bed and against the wall and bent over the sink in the bathroom, looking into the mirror. We often broke out my little vibrator to add clitoral stimulation, especially when we were in a position where he could not easily manage it himself. We'd tried complicated positions that were only feasible because of the yoga, and we had lots of old favorites to fall back on…

And yet, the night before he left for Peru, it was… Well, I mean, it was _never_ blah with Gil, but it wasn't the mind-blowing, earth-shattering experiences of our younger days. It should have been amazing. He'd only been home for a couple weeks and we weren't sure how long he'd be gone—except that he was planning to be back in time for the party for the Gilbert Foundation. His mother was insisting we attend.

It was… quick. Not like a hot, sweaty, urgent "quickie". No, we'd had all the time in the world, but we were tired and his knees were bad and it wasn't like he wasn't gone a lot. We had a _lot _of goodbye sex. I was used to him coming and going. So it was quick and it was missionary. We stripped out of our pajamas almost perfunctorily, and though I didn't feel like I was disinterested—my husband never failed to turn me on, whether he was actively trying or not—it was comfortable, not exciting. We were making love, an act we'd undertaken hundreds of times, and it was to some extent about fulfilling a need.

Not a need that either of us would go anywhere else to fill, of course. I trusted Gil. But it hadn't been particularly romantic, nor particularly lustful. It was my husband rubbing my back and kissing me with purpose and the natural, almost habitual, act of sharing myself with him, to a mutual end.

Maybe Hodges was right. Maybe Gil was attracted to women with… voracious appetites. Which meant that… Maybe he _was_ dissatisfied.

Julia might not be a "libertine" like he had claimed—her affair with the student was unintentional and almost out of her control—but she was adventurous, wasn't she? She'd not only had sex with a student, or had sex at a party, but had sex with a student at a party. A party where everyone would know both of them and immediately know how wrong it was for them to be together.

…That took balls.

I mean, I'd had sex in an airplane bathroom once, but I'd been young, in college, tipsy off the little airplane cocktails, and Ken had just been so fucking hot… But I hadn't had anything to lose, and I'd been young and reckless, and there were only friends and strangers on the plane. The most daring public display of affection Gil and I had dared had been a single, desperate, kiss in the lab, before I'd run away from Vegas.

The fact of the matter is that I would feel so much more comfortable if I had known about Julia, or Heather, for that matter. Before I found out for myself. It wasn't that my husband kept things from me, but he didn't usually volunteer anything from his sexual past. I knew the number of people he'd been with, the age at which he'd lost his virginity, and I knew what he liked from experience—quite enjoyable experience—but he just wasn't very comfortable discussing it. On his better days, his response was, "Why does it matter? I've never been happier than I am with you."

On worse days, I got an "I don't want to talk about it."

I didn't push it, because until now it hadn't really mattered. I'd made an effort to keep him satisfied and to make sure he was comfortable suggesting new things he'd wanted to try. I had never had an instance in which I told him I was unwilling to try something he desired. If he was unhappy, he never expressed it. I had been fairly confident in our relationship, with a few notable exceptions. Well, two. One, if you didn't count this present one. He'd spent the night with Lady Heather, hadn't called me or informed me of where he was or if he was coming home, and it had shaken me…

But I trusted him. He told me nothing had happened, and I believed him. Grissom was not the kind of man who would cheat, ever.

But now that I had another example of one of his former sexual partners… and she, too, was apparently a beautiful, brilliant, uninhibited master of her craft… well, it did make me wonder. Maybe he loved me, but still wanted more. What had Hodges said? Something about the value of stimulating intellectual conversation? He loved me and I was a good companion, but when he was away and taking care of business by himself… Did he think of me, or of his past lovers? Did he imagine hot wax and whips, liquid latex and spankings? Edge play? Giant dildos? Exotic leather lingerie and anal sex?

All the options of everything we hadn't done that he might have done with Heather or Julia circled my mind for two weeks between Hodges's words and his return. I was so self-conscious that I denied him both phone and cyber sex, via Skype, stating that I was tired or had a headache or didn't have batteries for the little vibrator. It was eating away at me, and I was starting to doubt every intimate experience we'd ever had.

Maybe every time I'd made a point of showing him how flexible I was—and every time I'd felt smug afterwards—it had merely been me living up to his lowest of expectations. Maybe he'd asked me for the things that hadn't bothered me because he figured I was such a prude that letting him lick chocolate syrup off of me was a stretch.

Hadn't he once told me that fantasies should be kept private? How many of his fantasies was he keeping private from me?

I was gnawing on my bottom lip in agitation when he found me in McCarran, arms crossed, waiting for him to come out from behind the security checkpoint. He grinned and hurried to me, looking happy and refreshed and like he'd lost a little weight on his trip. I wondered if that was because he was eating better, or if he'd once again made the mistake of drinking water that hadn't been purified and gotten diarrhea. When we'd been in Costa Rica, he'd lost something like twenty pounds before we left, because he just couldn't be bothered with being cautious. He liked to swim when we went canoeing and wade in after water bugs and… Well, anyway, he'd been ridiculously embarrassed, because of course the entire camp was aware of it, but also because it had severely disrupted our reunion sex.

That, at least, made me smile, and he was so happy to see it. His grin got wider and as soon as I was within arm's reach he was tugging me to him and pulling me close. We never kissed in the airport—didn't I tell you we didn't do public displays of affection?—but the fact that he held onto me for longer than a moment or so told me he'd really missed me.

It was only when he pulled back and I saw the concern in his features that it occurred to me. He'd acted like this when I'd visited him in Paris, after the events at the lab—the bodies being stolen and the shoot out, and then later the bombs… He hadn't shown it during that Skype conversation, perhaps because I was at the office or because his mother had come, and perhaps because he could see that I was okay. But he'd been worried. It must be a relief to wrap his arms around me now.

I sighed softly. Did it really matter if he wanted me to be a tigress in bed when I was just a kitten? He still loved the kitten. Enough to marry me, and promise forever to me, and worry about me as if his life depended on my safety. Besides, I doubted very much that Julia or Heather had ever worried about his pooping problems. That was wife territory. As intimate as sex, if not more so.

"I'm okay." I said, and the smile he gave me was small, but radiant. It spoke volumes.

Of course, this didn't last long. He wanted to make love as soon as we got home, and had his hand between my thighs on the drive, and yet when we pulled up to the townhouse… his mother was there. He'd apparently given her his flight details, thinking we'd meet her for the dinner that night. He hadn't expected her to be at the house at three in the afternoon.

We stayed out late, talking with his mother over drinks long after our plates had been cleared, and by the time we got home it wasn't just me that was tired—he'd been on a plane for hours before he'd arrived in Vegas. The wine had pretty much been the last straw—I had to pull off his clothes for him while he laid across our bed, drifting between being completely out and snoring softly, and disoriented wakefulness, complete with incoherent speech.

I'd woken before he had and so morning sex was out—by the time he woke, I was up having coffee and stressing over this again. It wasn't good enough that I was his well-loved but slightly disappointing kitten. I wanted to be his tigress, and I had no idea how to be. What if I suggested something and it completely turned him off? What if he did it because he thought I wanted it, and in the end we both ended up embarrassed and dissatisfied?

He tried to initiate a few times over the next week and a half, but I seemed to always have a very plausible reason why I just couldn't or really didn't feel like it. I knew that I couldn't put him off forever; I didn't want to, even. But every time I thought about slipping into bed with him, my stomach turned. I'd be working my ass off and he'd be wishing I could be more adventurous.

I would quite probably start crying, and not only did I not want to be that woman, but I knew he wouldn't be able to handle it. My husband was a wonderful man who I loved dearly, and he'd gotten so much better in dealing with my emotions, but if I burst into tears when he was expecting me to clench around him and scream out his name, he would be lost.

It was eleven days after he came home from Peru that he finally asked me what was wrong. It was my first night off since the one in which we'd gone out with his mother, we'd gotten plenty of sleep, and had just been happily laughing and watching SNL in bed. I clearly didn't have a headache, it was the wrong time of the month for cramps, and I wouldn't usually go to bed for another eight hours. So when he turned the TV off and slid up to me under the covers, his wide palm slipping under the fabric of my tank top and across the skin of my stomach, I knew that there was nothing, really, that I could say.

I tried anyway, because there was nothing else I really could do. "…Aren't you tired, babe? You've been up since just after I got home this morning, haven't you?"

"No, I'm not tired." He kissed me, and it felt so good that I trembled, but then I pulled away.

"I DVR-ed that documentary you missed from a couple weeks ago. The one about the… the, uh…" He was kissing my neck and it was just not fair how good it felt.

"_Goliathus giganteus_?"

"…Yeah. That." But Gil hadn't been a CSI for nothing. He was observant.

He pulled back. "…Are you upset with me, Sara?"

I blinked in surprise, and then shook my head. "No. Of course not. Why would you—"

"Usually when we've been apart, you can't wait to make love. I know I was a little… incapacitated… the first night. I overindulged, I know. But… but it's been almost two weeks since I got home—it's been more than a month since we've had sex. And either you've developed some mysterious illness that gives your chronic headaches, or you've been avoiding me."

My husband. It took him seven years to determine that he loved me and finally do something about it, but in this, he's direct.

"No. No, I haven't. I just didn't want you to feel like you had to stay up to do this, when you're probably pretty tired. And I know how much you were looking forward to the documen—"

He smothered my excuses with a kiss, and I knew that if I went along with it—let him make love to me like my body wanted me to so badly—the subject would drop. He would assume that I truly did have headaches that often or that I'd been upset at him for something minor that I'd obviously gotten over. He wouldn't bring it up, to spare himself the argument.

But I couldn't.

Already my stomach was rolling and I was sweating—not in the good way—and flickering through my mind were images of my husband wrapped up with the tigresses of his past. He and Julia somewhere almost public, he and Heather in the dominion, doing something involving leather and pain. He and other nameless, faceless women, wrapped up in activities I couldn't really even imagine.

I pulled back abruptly, feeling like I was going to vomit. "Oh god. I can't, Gil."

"…Why?" He was no longer confronting me. His voice wasn't curious. It was pained. I was hurting him. He thought I didn't desire him anymore. And as much as I knew it would cost me to admit it, it would always, always hurt worse to see him in pain. I rolled so that my face was in the pillow—so that I couldn't see him and so that he couldn't read the insecurity in my eyes.

"Hiden choo ellee batchoolia?"

Under less serious circumstances, I knew he'd be chuckling at me and teasing me for my muffled words. Tonight, he did not laugh. He placed a warm palm to my bare upper back and leaned down closer. "…Could you say that again, honey?"

I swallowed hard and bent my head forward so that my forehead was pressed into the pillow and my mouth was unobstructed. "..Why didn't you tell me about Julia?"

I could feel him tense behind me, and after a moment he relaxed. "…I haven't told you about any of my past lovers, Sara. The only reason we discussed Heather was because…" He trailed off, not wishing to bring up the night in question, and I nodded. I didn't want to rehash it either. When I didn't immediately answer, his hand drew a slow circle on my back and he murmured softly, "…Are you really so upset that I didn't give you details?"

"I was upset to be caught off guard. You had to know that she would be at that party, and yet you didn't think some kind of disclaimer was in order? 'Hey honey, I know we don't really talk about this, but you should know that an ex-girlfriend of mine will be there and she happens to be friends with my mother…'"

I can't see him, but I think he's probably nodding, his lips pursed a little in thought. After a moment, he concedes. "…You're right. I should have told you about her. But the truth is that it didn't even occur to me. The event was important to my mother, and I was thinking that it might be a good opportunity for you two to bond. I wasn't thinking about Julia."

I feel guilty, then, because his voice is so sincere that it hurts. I swallow and nod. "…Okay."

"Sara."

"Mm?"

"You wouldn't still be in the pillow if that was everything."

Had I really thought I wanted him to be more emotionally available? Had I really been happy that he was becoming more perceptive? More sensitive to my needs? I found myself wishing fervently for a Grissom who avoided my emotions and didn't know what to do about this.

I pulled myself out of the pillow. "No, that's it. I'm fine."

"You're never 'fine' when you say you are. …Sara, honey, just talk to me. Let me fix it, whatever I did."

I cringed and put my head back in the pillow, taking care to leave my mouth free. I didn't like saying everything twice. "There's nothing to fix. You didn't do anything wrong. It's not your fault." No, it's not your fault that you'd rather have me sticking needles through your nipples than be satisfied with an old-fashioned blow job.

"Sara." He finally says with some level of frustration. "I'm your husband. You're my wife. Whatever it is, we're going to get through it. For better or worse. …You're the one who always said we needed to work on our communication. _Talk_ to me."

Oh. Yeah, that's rich. Mr. Communication here thinks we should talk about how he loves me despite the fact that I can't live up to his exes. Why don't we just discuss in detail that one time in Costa Rica that he drank a whole lot of local moonshine and couldn't get it up at all, hmm? Or how about the poopy problems that followed _that_ little adventure?

But he isn't giving up, and I do know that this is hurting his ego. He's frustrated now, because I reassured him that it wasn't his fault, but give it another minute or so…

"Did I… hurt you, the last time we were together?"

Oh, I underestimated him. He's already back to blaming himself. I grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes tightly closed. How on earth could a session of lovemaking that had probably nearly put him to sleep have hurt me? I was no longer a kitten—I was a kitten made out of ice, hanging out in a sauna.

Oh god, I sound like Nick when he's drunk. "_Faster'n a jack rabbit in a cactus patch!_" Or something. "_...so mad, you'da thought the devil ate his breakfast!"_ I couldn't possibly tell you how fast a jack rabbit moves while in a cactus patch, and as the devil has never eaten my breakfast, there goes my frame of reference on that one too.

"No, Gil, you didn't hurt me. You never hurt me."

He's quiet then, and I don't know if he's waiting me out, hoping I'll get uncomfortable and start to over-talk, or if he's trying to come up with another theory.

A wave of exasperation rolls over me and I sigh, sitting up and tucking my knees to my chest. "Maybe we should try role playing. I could… be your secretary?"

I can tell he's doing that thing where he moves his tongue around in his mouth, pressing against his teeth and the inside of his cheeks while he thinks. Finally, he nods slowly. "Of course. …Is that what this was about?"

I eye him for some sign that this is what he's been waiting for, and come up empty. I could play this game all day. At least role playing seems pretty simple. Nothing I'd feel like I ought to research before attempting. I nodded. "Let's, ah… let's just try it. Okay?"

He nods again, more resolutely. "I'll get into my old court suit." And without another word he moves to his closet and begins rummaging, pulling out the black one that he looks so damn good in, and then taking his time to select a vibrantly blue shirt and the tie I bought him for our first Christmas, to go with it. It was also blue, but with little silver paisley patterns. He'd rolled his eyes and insisted that enough people at the lab already thought he was gay, but he wore it on his first day of court for every trial he testified in, without fail.

Drawing in a shaky breath, I too rose out of bed and moved to my own closet, choosing the newest suit I'd purchased—leaving CSI had necessitated a wardrobe update when I returned. It was charcoal gray—a fitted pencil skirt that hugged me down to my knees, complete with ruffle, and a suit jacket to match, also with an understated ruffle. Catherine had talked me into it, but it was actually rather cute… Deciding I might as well match him, I pulled out a silky blue tank top to go underneath it.

When I turned away from the closet, Gil was watching me carefully. I met his gaze and he offered me a soft smile. Had I guessed correctly and he was pleased, or was he merely indulging me? I would try every trick in the book if it meant I didn't have to admit to him that I'd been comparing myself to the infamous Heather and Julia. Heather, who had allowed herself to be killed, if unsuccessfully, for money, and Julia, who had been seduced by a student who wasn't even deaf.

"I'll, uh… change out there. Give you some privacy." And he slipped out of the room. Was that his way of telling me that he expected his sexy secretary to be in sexy panties? With yet another heavy swallow, I moved to my underwear drawer and retrieved the red, lacy pair he'd given me for Valentine's Day.

Without allowing myself to truly consider what I was about to do, I slipped out of my PJs and into the matching panties and bra. After a moment of consideration, I pulled out a pair of thigh-high stockings and slid into those as well. I wished that I owned a garter belt to match the underwear, but the stockings had elastic at the top anyway, so it didn't really matter. I slid into the skirt, at the very least thinking that he wouldn't have seen me in it had I not suggested this little game, and then pulled the tank top over my head. Once I had the jacket buttoned beneath my breasts, I adjusted the tank top to be certain he would catch a glimpse of red if he looked down my shirt, and finally retrieved my black heels. I took the open-toed ones that I had purchased for our first date, rather than the conservative closed-toed heels that saw way more use.

With a spark of inspiration, I went directly to our office and set myself up at my desk, hoping that he would find me here. Thankfully, I didn't have long to wait, and I didn't have to announce my presence. He entered a minute or so after I'd settled myself, and grinned when he saw me waiting. I flushed bright red, but at least I was quick on my feet.

"Good evening, Dr. Grissom. You're in the office late."

His grin widened, though his eyes still seemed… speculative. Doubt flashed through me, until he responded. "I am—I left some papers here that I meant to go over at home tonight."

Surprisingly, so far, this was coming easily for me. "Oh… You work so _hard_, Dr. Grissom. You shouldn't be taking work home with you…"

This time, I saw desire flash in his eyes, and felt satisfaction replace any lingering doubt. Maybe he'd been wondering if I could pull this off. Obviously, we'd both just learned that I could. He raised an eyebrow and moved over to his own desk, shuffling around in his papers. "You're here awfully late yourself, Miss Sidle…" Chills skated down my spine. Oh, this had been a good idea…

I looked down demurely and batted my eyelashes, hoping I wasn't overplaying this. "Well, there's just been so much to do and… I guess I don't really want to be home, all alone." I let my eyes flicker up to him. He'd stilled his movements with the papers and he wasn't looking directly at me but rather out of the side of his eyes.

"Oh. I see. …It can't be much better staying here at the office, alone."

I shrugged and stood up. "Let me help you find what you're looking for, Sir. You don't need to waste your night here..." I moved over to where he was standing and intentionally brushed my breast against his arm as I reached around him.

"The Smith file?" I picked up a manila folder, and instead of taking it, he turned to look at me. His face was inches from mine, and I felt my breathing pick up. His hand closed around the file, but his eyes didn't waver.

"Thank you…"

His voice was deep enough to tell me that he was really getting into this too, and my heart fluttered. I held his gaze a few moments longer, and then backed up, as though just realizing how close we'd been. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear self-consciously. "…Anything else I can do for you, Dr. Grissom?"

He turned then, fully, and set the file back on the desk as if it were meaningless. "Well, Miss Sidle… there is something, but I don't know if…"

"Anything, Dr. Grissom. Whatever you need…"

A slow, almost predatory smile crossed his face then, and he took a step towards me. Without even thinking about it, I stepped back, bumping into the desk behind me, my eyes a little wide. "…A man has certain… needs, Miss Sidle."

The intellectual in me was scowling at that statement, but for some reason, physically, it was making me weak in the knees. I didn't have to fake the tremble when I repeated, "N-needs?"

His smile widened and he took another step forward. I leaned back against the desk, bracing myself on my hands, and swallowed heavily. "Physical needs, Miss Sidle. An old bachelor like me can get pretty lonely. But you understand that, living all alone yourself. …That's why you're here, isn't it?" Another step.

Oh, Jesus Christ he was good at this. Those little lace panties were already soaked. My hands were actually shaking. What on earth could I say to that…?

"I, ah… I…"

"You did say _anything_, didn't you, Miss Sidle?"

He was right up to me now and he placed a hand on the desk on either side of me, looming in close. I drew in a deep breath and could smell him—his soap, his skin, his arousal. I nodded slowly and then whispered in as sexy a voice as I could manage, "..._Anything_, Dr. Grissom."

He actually gasped out loud when I did, and the next moment he was plundering my mouth, bending me back over the desk, a groan sliding up deep from his throat.

I whimpered at the sheer intensity of it, but a moment later he'd pulled back. We were both breathing heavily, but he was more in-control. He took a step backwards, swallowed, and then rasped out, "On your knees, Miss Sidle."

My eyelids were heavy over my eyes even as he spoke this… somewhat shocking statement. Before I could even think about it, I was on my knees in front of him and he was undoing his belt, unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers, pulling his thick erection from the hole in his boxers.

My mouth quite literally watered.

I can tell you, that's not a normal reaction for me. I actually really like giving Gil head, but never do I feel… hungry for it. I didn't wait for him to direct me. I licked my lips and knee-walked a step forward until I could take him into my mouth without hesitation. The near-yell that came, strangled, from his lips combined with the desperate way his fingers clutched at my hair told me that I was doing something right. I bobbed up and down, ran my hands over his thighs, and moaned against him. I wrapped my right hand around the base of him and used the other to cup his balls and when I slid him as deep I could and issued a guttural groan, his knees nearly went out.

My husband, unflappable, Gruesome Grissom, almost collapsing because of my mouth. God, I felt powerful. I sucked harder, moved faster, willing him to come like this, as fast as I could make him. Willing him to see me as a tigress. Another strangled groan and he was stepping away from me, his eyes wild and disoriented, his erection bobbing. At my questioning look, he cleared his throat and took a deep breath to steady himself.

"…Up on your desk, Miss Sidle."

My eyes were wide, but once again I complied, rising and backing up to the surface, pushing some papers out of the way so that I could sit up on it. If he didn't fuck me right now I was going to go insane with longing. I was so wet. My inner thighs were smeared with what the lace could no longer contain, and if he didn't get _over_ here, I was going to jump him myself.

He didn't waste any time. He gave himself one more deep breath, and then he approached the desk, the length of him still out and taunting. I shivered, and he placed a hand on my knee. "…Open."

My eyes slid closed as my legs slowly parted for him. The things this man's voice did to me. I would be his little secretary every day for the rest of our lives if he would just touch me! He didn't touch me though, or speak, and after a moment my eyes opened again. He was grinning and, once he saw that I was watching him, slid a hand up my thigh and snapped the top of one of my thigh-highs. I gasped and whimpered, and he continued upwards, brushing against my core before retreating.

"Dr. Grissom…" came out of my mouth as naturally as when I pleaded for 'Gil' to stop teasing, and he smirked all too knowingly.

"…Yes, Miss Sidle…?"

_Touch me!_ I wanted to scream. "…I… Please, I…" His fingers brushed by me again, and the gasp I let out was half-sob. "Oh, god, I need you, please…"

"…You need me, Miss Sidle?"

What did I have to do, push him into a chair and leap on him like a ring in a game of Ring Toss? "I need to feel you. Please…"

This time, there was real pressure behind his touch, and the strangled cry of joy that bubbled up from me was shameless. Anything, any kind of relief at this point would be welcome. "…Like this, Miss Sidle?" He pushed a little harder, right above my clitoris, and I fought to keep my eyes open as stars bloomed in front of my vision.

"Yessssss!" I hissed, arching up against his hand, panting.

He rubbed me harder, until my head was thrown back and my nails digging into the wood on the underside of the desk and I was positively keening… and then he pulled back. To say that I was frustrated would be the biggest understatement of my life. I was too incoherent to form speech at this point, but my eyes asked the question for me. He grinned.

"I believe… that this was supposed to be about _my_ needs?"

I don't know where on earth my courage came from, but it took me only a second to decide to slide off of the desk, turn around to face it, and then slowly reach behind me to lower the zipper in back. The skirt was very fitted, so even once unzipped I had to slowly wriggle my way out of it, but I did my best to make it as seductive as possible. Finally, once past my hips, it slid down to the floor to pool around my heels, and I stepped out of it and kicked it to the side, widening my stance and bracing both hands on the desk before me.

He honestly _growled_ behind me. My husband doesn't usually growl. And then he was pressed up against my back, his hands tearing at the jacket to reach my breasts, his arousal hard and pulsing on the lace of my panties. A hand slid down my stomach and dipped beneath the underwear without hesitation, and the minute his fingers started circling my clit I was lost. I was incoherent, and really, really loud, bucking against his hand and begging him to fuck me.

"Oh… Fuck! Fuck me! Please! God-gah… ah…"

He thrust up against my ass, and then gripped my panties with both hands and ripped them down my legs. I nearly tripped in my heels, trying to step out of them, and by the time I'd regained my balance he was right up behind me again, his length between my dripping thighs, pressing up insistently. I widened my stance again and then leaned forward, bending my knees to facilitate the joining. He lined himself up, penetrating the first ring of muscle to our mutual groans of satisfaction, and then bent over on top of me, slowly rocking in and out, getting deeper each time.

His fingers laced between mine on the desk and his panting was loud in my ears, but those were my only realities outside of the magic he was working between my legs. My world had shrunk to this one moment and experience, and I was catapulting forward to what promised to be the most intense climax of my entire life.

I tried so hard to hold back, to make it about him, or to wait and come when he was ready, but he didn't want me to wait. He released a hand while still pumping into me and put it back to work on my clit, gasping into my ear, "I want you to come, Miss Sidle. Come so hard for me. Show me what I do to you. Come!" He punctuated his final command with an urgent thrust and rapid strokes against my little bundle of nerves, and I obeyed. Loudly.

I wasn't even aware that he'd come too, until I came down and could feel the last twitches of him emptying himself inside me, his moans loud against the side of my face, sweat dripping from his hairline down onto my cheek.

Once I could catch my breath, I turned my head just enough to see him, and sighed out, "…I love you, Gil."

He sighed happily too, ruffling my hair and cooling my damp neck with his breath. "I love you too, Sara." He braced his hands on the desk then and slowly slid out of me, stepping back and tucking himself back into his boxers. I slowly rose to stand up straight as well, feeling deliciously sore. When I caught his eye, he gave me that adorable grin of his that I love, and slowly helped me pick up my discarded clothes. Together we walked back to the bedroom on shaky legs, hung up our court clothes to be sent to the dry cleaner's, and crawled into bed naked, immediately curling up to enjoy the skin-to-skin contact.

After a long moment of simply basking, Gil sighed and squeezed me tighter. "I had no idea role playing would be so… well, _hot._"

I blinked in surprise and glanced up at him. "…You've never done it before?"

He chuckled softly and laid a kiss into my hair. "No. But then, I hadn't done a lot of things before I met you, my love. …You make me more adventurous."

"But I thought…" I frowned, my world spinning. He looked down at me.

"…You thought?"

"…I thought that… that you were dissatisfied. That I wasn't living up to… past experience."

He frowned deeply. "What? Where on earth would you have gotten that idea?"

I bit my lip and shrugged. "…Hodges."

His face was absolutely incredulous, and I watched him take a moment to keep his voice calm and rational. "…And you think that David Hodges has a better grasp on my level of sexual satisfaction than you do?"

I blinked several times, not having expected the defensive tone in his voice. "N-no. But… When we found out that Julia was sleeping with her student—and that she'd probably had sex with him at the party—Hodges commented that… that you must clearly be attracted to women with… voracious appetites and… unbridled passion. Like Julia. And Lady Heather. And… and then he realized what he'd said and started trying to fix it by saying that… that intellectual conversation is good too and…"

He shut me up with a kiss, which I was fairly grateful for. When he finally pulled back, the frown was still in place. "…This is what you've been upset about? Why you've been making excuses and pushing me away?"

I looked away, feeling ashamed, but I nodded softly. A finger turned my face back to look at him, and his eyes were soft. "…Sara, I _am_ attracted to women with unbridled passion." I felt tears fill my eyes, but he didn't give me the chance to spill them. "…and in case you haven't noticed, nothing that you did to me tonight could be construed as an intellectual conversation…"

I looked up at him, wide-eyed, and felt myself blush. "…You think I have… unbridled passion?"

He grinned then, shaking his head and kissing me again. "_Yes, _Sara. I can't believe you're actually insecure about this. You are the most passionate woman I've ever met, inside and outside of our bedroom. …Never in my life have I tried so many things nor been so… unafraid. I can suggest anything with you and you never judge me. …I know you won't believe me, but that's incredibly sexy. …As much as you'd like to believe it, I didn't just marry you for your brain."

His voice was finally teasing, and I smiled softly, melting slowly back into his embrace. "…So, according to you… We have _great_ sex…?"

He chuckled and kissed me. "Yes, Sara. Mind-blowing, earth-shattering, life-altering, each and every time…"

I sighed happily. "Okay. Good." I murmured, and settled down to drift to sleep. My eyes and limbs were heavy in afterglow, and even as a thought occurred to me—a very important thought—I had to struggle back up from sleep to voice it. "…Will you tell Hodges that?"

I fell back asleep smiling to the sound of his laughter.


End file.
